


A Deer in Nara

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mention of Stan's death, Nightmares, Post-Coming Out Set
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29459859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Eddie shrugs. “I might as well stay the weekend.” His eyebrows dip a little. “Unless that was a hint. Do you want me to leave so you can celebrate your newfound liberation at a gay bar?”Richie laughs. “Really? Those are the vibes I’m giving off? With the crying and the Cheetos-eating? ‘Richie seems like he’s in a slutty, slutty mood’?”Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know what your slutty mood looks like.”Oh Eddie. Poor naieve Eddie.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 60
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Alt-J!

“I’d love to get drinks,” Richie says, already backing into the parking lot. “But I’m just. Exhausted.”

There’s a round of protests from the other Losers, but Richie, determined to chug a bottle of bourbon and pass out on his bed, gets out fast.

He’s wrapped up enough in his own brain that he doesn’t realise, until he gets to his car, that Eddie is following him.

“Jesus.” He doesn’t have to fake the mini heart-attack he gets when he spots him. “Stalked by a Keebler elf.”

“Ha fucking ha.” says Eddie. “I’m going with you, dipshit.”

“Eds,” Richie says. “I’m just not in the mood to celebrate.” Which is maybe more than he wanted to divulge, but he really, really just wants to go home.

“We don’t have to,” Eddie says. “I just don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“Well gee, Eds, that sounded fucking ominous. Listen, I pinky promise I’m not going to OD, or slit my-” _Nope. Not thinking about him right now._ “-whatever you think is going to happen. I’m fine. Seriously.”

“Jesus.” Eddie says loudly, that almost-yell he usually uses with Richie. “You know, sometimes people _choose_ to hang out with each other, even if they’re _not_ actively suicidal.”

“Huh,” Richie says. “Weird.”

“Are you really going to fight me on this?” Eddie asks, puffing out his chest a little, as if he’s preparing for an _actual_ fight.

Richie, when he thinks about it, doesn’t actually have a problem with Eddie coming home with him.

“Nope.”

Eddie’s chest deflates a little. ‘Ok,” he says, and reaches for the car door handle.

Richie immediately locks it, just to see Eddie’s murder eyes turn on him.

He grins, and unlocks it again.

“It’s gonna be a long fucking night,” Eddie mutters, as Richie gets in next to him.

The nice thing about Stan was that he he’d tell Richie to shut up, and mean it. And Richie could stop performing, for a few minutes, stop trying to entertain everyone around him.

Eddie would tell Richie to shut up, and then, if he dared stay silent, start poking and prodding.

Or at least, that’s what he was like when they were kids.

But adult Eddie sits across from him, while Richie’s in the middle of telling a story about Steve, and says, “You know, you don’t have to talk all the time.”

There’s not a trace of jocundity in his voice, and Richie can’t explain it away like he could when Stan did it, knows that for Stan it wasn’t _personal_ , it was just _you’re all so fucking noisy and I need some goddamn quiet._

But Eddie is looking straight into his eyes. It feels personal.

He forces a laugh. “Well, gee, Eddie, don’t sugar-coat it.”

“I like hearing you talk,” Eddie says. “You just don’t _have_ to.”

And _oh_ , this is worse than personal. This is being operated on, Surgeon Kaspbrak pulling each of his organs out one-by-one, measuring up everything that goes into the carefully curated skin-deep Richie. It’s painful, and scary, and embarrassing, and thrilling, not least because it means, surely, that Eddie can also see his heart.

He really can’t think of a response, just swallows, and says, “I’m, um. I think I left the tap on,” and goes into the kitchen, where he sits on the floor against the counter island, a little overhang above his head. He remembers doing the same in middle school, giving his mother a little fright every time she noticed him.

_Richie_ , she’d admonish. _Do you have to hide in corners like a gremlin?_

Richie did. Richie had only maintained his sanity through sleeping under heavy bedcovers and seeing his friends in a shelter and building up a thick exoskeleton of bullshit to surround him.

And now he’s chipped down half his defences, out of some misguided attempt to be _genuine_ , and Eddie, it turns out, could see through them all along.

His eyes burn.

He hears Eddie come in. Probably should’ve come up with an excuse to leave that would take longer than 30 seconds.

His steps stutter as soon as he steps into the kitchen, eyes widening. “Rich, I really didn’t mean-”

“I know,” says Richie, wiping ineffectively at his eyes, _everything’s normal, Eddie, go back to your tea, pay no attention to the man behind the counter._

“Is this about the show?” Eddie asks, hovering like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

He nods, because it isn’t entirely untrue. It’s probably a little bit about the show, and a little bit about the fact that he’s barely slept in weeks. A little bit about his best friend being dead, a little bit about hiding a part of himself for decades, a little bit about the fact that ripping one secret out hurt like hell and he still has a hundred inside, and a little bit about the fact that he had to fight a fucking demon clown before his balls dropped.

It’s a lot about Eddie.

“Are you worried about the reaction?” Eddie asks, sitting next to Richie, warm and steady.

“I guess,” Richie finds himself saying, looking off into the skewed view of the living room. _Apparently he **can** talk about himself, just so long as he’s trying to divert attention from other parts of himself. _“Mostly I just expected to feel relieved. But I think I feel more anxious than ever.”

“You’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it will, and you’ll see how people react. And, good or bad, you won’t have to wonder anymore.”

Eddie, who had been getting progressively more worked up, jabbing at the air with his hands, suddenly stills, hands resting in his lap. “I mean. That’s what I assume.”

Richie blinks at him. “Eddie. Will you be my therapist?”

“I literally cannot picture a career I’m less suited to.”

“Buddhist monk.”

Eddie rolls his eyes a little then counters with, “Sewer technician.”

Richie snorts, and Eddie preens a little.

“Maybe I’ll keep it up,” Richie says. “Reveal a secret a week. Keep the world on tenterhooks.”

He’s expecting Eddie to scoff at the idea that anyone’s waiting with baited breath.

But he just says, “Maybe I should try that.”

Richie looks at him, not sure if he’s waiting for something. But Eddie just stands up, and extends a hand.

Richie takes it, and pulls himself up.

As soon as he drops Eddie’s hand, Eddie steps forward, and wraps his arms around Richie’s middle.

It’s not like they haven’t hugged before. But it’s usually those factory line hugs everyone dishes out when they all meet up for dinner. 2 seconds, pat on the back, you’re done.

Sustained contact is new for them, at least as adults, and Eddie’s head pressed to his chest makes Richie’s blood run hot-cold alternately.

He curls his arms around Eddie’s back easily. _He could probably fit 3 Eddies in his arms._

_He could do a lot with 3 Eddies._


	2. Chapter 2

Richie wakes up with a vague feeling of dread. Then the events of the last 24 hours slip into place, and the fear turns vibrant.

He can’t move. He wonders, briefly, if it’s sleep paralysis, but there’s no clown looming over him. He just has this sinking certainty that if he leaves the room, the outside world will come flooding in.

He knows, objectively, that he’s not that big a deal. That there probably won’t be floods of mail slipped under his front door, reporters knocking, or cameras behind the curtain.

But that’s not what it feels like. It feels like this is his zombie apocalypse bunker. Only an idiot leaves the bunker.

He barely has enough food to last for a day at home. _God, why didn’t he think this through?_ Didn’t think about any of the _after_ , just fucking barrelled through the _now_ because he knew he’d be too fucking cowardly to do it otherwise. _Idiot._

Richie’s jolted out of the train of thought by three unmistakeable knocks on his door.

_They’re here_ , he thinks, _They’re here and they know_ , and then the doorknob starts turning and his hands almost tear through his bedsheet but he still can’t go anywhere and then-it’s Eddie, _of course it’s Eddie._ Swamped in Richie’s sweatpants and a shirt that says _Beach Babe_ across the front.

“Rich? Bad dream?”

And _oh_ , Richie remembers that too, now. Bowers, knife to Eddie’s neck.

_That’s it, Richie_ , he’d said. _Tell everyone what you want. Makes my job easier._

And Richie watched the knife slide over his throat, watched Eddie’s knees hit the ground. No screaming or crying, just silence, like it must have been for Stan-

“Shit.” Eddie moves closer and Richie realises he’s crying. He brings his hand up to hide.

And then Eddie’s slipping into bed next to him. Wrapping an arm around his waist and putting his head to Richie’s chest, with the kind of relaxed efficiency of a doctor looking for a heartbeat. Like this is normal for them.

Richie is gross all the time, probably, but he’s especially gross this morning. Damp like a 3-day-old fishcake and roughly approximating the scent. Eddie must realise this at some point, with his neat little combover right up against Richie’s chest, but he doesn’t move.

Richie tries not too sob too obviously, in the same way a saxophonist tries not to practice too loudly. There are just limits to what’s possible.

_Jesus. Fuck whatever male menopause bullshit this is._

Eventually, _thank fuck,_ he gets a handle on it. Is reduced to the occasional pathetic sniffle sound. He moves his hand from his eyes, and is struck by the fact that there’s nowhere to put it except on Eddie.

… _There’s no way **that’s** gonna be the thing that makes Eddie freak out, right? At this point?_

He tentatively rests it on Eddie’s upper back.

Eddie doesn’t freak out. In fact, his thumb starts brushing over Richie’s hipbone. Maybe he’s trying to comfort Richie, or maybe it’s just an unconscious habit.

For Richie, who has gathered a truly tragic amount of evidence that he can have a breakdown and get a boner simultaneously, it’s not particularly comforting.

“I have them too,” Eddie says.

_Boners?_ Richie thinks, dumbfoundedly checking that’s nothing’s actually arisen, then, _Ah. Nightmares._

“I kind of assumed it was the Deadlights.”

“No,” says Eddie. “I mean maybe that makes it worse, but. I think weird dreams are pretty standard after you kill a demon clown.” He pauses, then asks, “Was yours about me-” he moves his hand off Richie’s hip to loosely gesture around his own abdomen.

Richie has about 3 seconds of blind panic before he realises that Eddie’s _getting stabbed_ gesture is exactly the same as the rest of humanity’s _jerking off_ gesture.

He manages to button down the slightly hysterical laugh that tries to make its way out, because that would be truly terrible timing.

“No,” he says, which isn’t _technically_ a lie.

“Oh. I assumed, because. Well, you said my name a lot.”

_Blind panic, my old friend._

“Well, you kept walking in on me and your m-”

Eddie moves his hand back to pinch at the fat between Richie’s hipbone and ribs.

Richie yelps in a way that no one can prove isn’t pain-related.

Eddie lies there for a second or two, until it becomes clear that Richie isn’t going to elaborate. Then he sits up, facing Richie. Hair sticking up in clumps. “So what _was_ it about?”

He settles for another half-truth.

“Standard stuff. Bowers. Although he had more of a grasp of the English language than he did in real life.”

“That’s because your subconscious is a nerd.” Eddie says.

“Ok, risk analyst.”

Eddie grabs the pillow next to Richie’s to whack him with it. Then he asks, “What do you want for breakfast?” like he didn’t just go on the attack.

“There’s cereal in the cupboard,” Richie says. “I have. Eggs. If you eat eggs.”

Eddie gives him a look. “But what do you _want_?”

“...I’m not really up for going out for brunch, Eddie, I’ll be honest-”

“Oh my God.” says an exasperated Eddie. “I’m asking you what you want me to make, dumbass. Pancakes? An omelette? I can _make_ cereal if you _want_ cereal-”

“Oh,” Richie says, feeling warm. “Pancakes please.”

“Ok,” Eddie says, getting up. “Go take a shower.”

It’s only after Richie’s halfway to the bathroom that he realises he’s no longer stuck in place.

Richie eats his pancakes with chocolate sauce and cream. Eddie has his with fruit, but Richie knows he’ll mop up Richie’s plate once he’s done.

Richie keeps glancing at the shiny black surface of his phone.

“ _Richie_.” Eddie says, putting his knife and fork down, because he’s a drama queen. “I can’t tell if you want to look at your phone or throw it into a pond. Do you need me to give you permission to look at it at the table? Did you grow a sense of etiquette overnight?”

Richie ponders this. “Thank you for asking, Eds,” he says, puppy eyes in full swing. “What I want is for you to go on Twitter, and read out what the general response to _moi_ is.” He smiles sunnily, as if this is a great privilege.

Eddie gives him an unimpressed look. “Here’s an idea. How about you _don’t_ look at internet comments from strangers until Steve can give you the professional strategy to go along with it,”

“Here’s the thing, Eds. I’m going to look at them. I’m not going to be able to stop myself. And if I’m going to listen to people telling me to go fuck myself, I’d rather it came out of your mouth.”

Eddie sighs, his mouth setting in a line. “Fine,” he says, and grabs Richie’s phone. He glares at Richie the entire time it’s turning on, as if it’s Richie’s fault that it takes a minute.

Richie watches him thumb at the screen.

And wince slightly.

“Oh my God.” Richie says, chest tightening. “Really? It’s that bad?”

“No,” Eddie says quickly. “Uh. Look, you knew some of your fans would be disappointed-”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Richie. “But I was supposed to get _new_ fans. Do I not have _any new fans?_ ”

“Sure you do,” Eddie says, then scrolls frantically. “Oh, here’s one. ‘Last night, Tozier was funnier than he’s been in years.”

“…That’s not even technically a compliment. That is so carefully couched to _not_ be a compliment.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon. Obviously it’s _intended_ to be a compliment.”

“Read another one.”

Eddie starts scrolling again.

“Stop scrolling. Just. Read whatever’s on the screen.”

Eddie sighs. “…’After years of blandly rehashing heteronormative stereotypes, Richie Tozier attempts to join the ranks of queer comedians…The question is, do we want him’?”

Richie stares. “…Jesus.”

“They spelt your name wrong, I don’t think they’re-”

Richie grabs the phone, starts looking through the other comments.

“’Maybe 10 years ago, we would’ve been desperate for a Richie Tozier. But in a world with its own Tig Notaro, Hannah Gadsby and Simon Amstell, his new take on comedy arrives 15 minutes late with Starbucks.’ ‘Comedian who gave the impression he’s never actually met a woman turns out to be gay. Shocker.’”

“Richie.” Eddie interrupts. “Do any of those people sound like they actually saw the show? Cause they’re not saying shit about the material. All they’re commenting on is the big celebrity news.”

Richie blinks. ”Well they’re gonna do a great job of convincing everyone else not to see it.”

“Maybe you should do a couple more sets before you declare that hope is lost. Let people get used to the fact that you’re actually funny now. Let them start to focus on the comedy rather than everything surrounding it.”

Richie looks at him. Eddie’s usually so high-strung that a rare sighting of Calm Eddie is actually very reassuring.

“I don’t know how much my opinion’s worth,” Eddie adds. “But _I_ thought you were fucking funny.”

Richie feels caught. There’s the objective reality of the situation, which is that this is his career, and Eddie’s opinion is not that important compared to the opinions of 300 million other Americans.

Then there’s the fact that at age 13, Richie spent months trying to perfect a Clint Eastwood accent at the expense of all other impressions, giving himself a wheezing cough in the process. Because whenever he tried it out, Eddie watched, rapt.

Not a lot has changed.

It takes Richie a minute to realise Eddie’s grabbed his phone. He turns it off and puts it face-down on the table, looking at Richie like he’s daring him to intervene.

“No screen time till after breakfast,” he says.

Richie grins at him.

“Oh, I used up your eggs,” Eddie says, waving his hand as he remembers. “And you don’t have a lot of milk. Honestly Richie, do you not keep like, _spares_ of things?”

“Nah, I use this other strategy.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, so, whenever I run out of something. I go shopping.”

“Oh that’s so smart. Why don’t I do that? Oh yeah, because we live in a city with fucking blizzards, and sometimes you need to stock up more than 6 minutes worth of food, _you fucking troglodyte.”_

Richie snorts, almost choking on his last bite of pancake.

“Ok,” he says, pushing his plate over so Eddie can wipe up the sauce with his remaining flapjack. “No blizzard, so. I’m gonna go shopping.”

Eddie looks like maybe _he’s_ about to talk Richie out of it, before he blinks it away and says, “Ok. Do you want me to come with you?”

Richie laughs, like the concept is ridiculous. _Emotional support to go to the shops? For ultimate macho man, Richie Tozier? Unnecessary._

“I think I can handle the fresh fruit aisle.”

“I have a wealth of evidence that you can’t,” Eddie says, looking at the empty fruit bowls. “But whatever.”

“Alright,” Richie says, now obliged to follow through. He grabs his wallet. He kind of wants to dig up the sunglasses that are somewhere at the bottom of his wardrobe, but he has a feeling Eddie, witnessing clothes strewn across the floor, may realise ultimate macho man, Richie Tozier, is a little anxious. He settles for grabbing a cap from the hat rack and pulling it over his eyes. “Cya.”

His chest tightens up as soon as he walks out the door, but it’s fine. He’s fine.

The supermarket’s about 5 minutes away. He makes his way, staring at a tree in the distance and wilfully not making eye contact with any humans. Until he sees the glint of silver and ducks into a side street, swallowing down nausea.

The man walks past, unbothered. It’s a brooch. Not a knife.

“You’re fine,” Richie tells himself. Out loud, when in his head proves to be insufficient.

He’s fine. He makes his way to the supermarket.

None of the papers there mention him. Richie doesn’t know if he should give thanks thanks to the slowness of print or his general insignificance in the world, so he just exudes thanks willy-nilly.

He realises, once he’s standing in an aisle, that he failed to bring a shopping list.

He remembers milk being mentioned. He grabs two litres, puts it back, and gets a low-fat one, in case Eddie cares about that.

He should probably just get a bunch of ready-meals, right? Cover his ass.

He grabs a pile from the freezer and checks out.

The cashier doesn’t recognise him. She’s probably about 8 years too young.

He counts his chickens as soon as he walks out the door, totally unprepared for a small, brunette man to almost walk into him.

“Sorry,” the man says, looking up. “Do you know where-” and then he blinks, cocking his head.

Richie, already seeing his face on milk cartons _(do they do that for adults? Is it only children that get milk carton privileges?)_ , starts edging away.

“You’re Richie Tozier, right?” The man says, following him.

“Nope,” Richie says, back hitting the wall of the shop.

“It’s not fair, you know,” the brunette says loudly. “Switching teams just because it’s trendy now. We’re not gonna just forget the years you spent being an asshole.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Richie says.

“You’re not one of us,” the man says, and sets his jaw.

And just like it did with Bowers, and Pennywise, like it always does when he’s pushed far enough, Richie’s brain switches from flight to fight.

“Oh _you’re_ the gatekeeper,” Richie says. _Gaytekeeper,_ his stand-up hindbrain supplies helpfully. _Write that down._ “What I have to guess the answer to a riddle and you’ll let me go home?”

“You don’t feel bad about any of this, do you?”

“For my life in general, yes! But not for this! This is the one thing I think maybe I did right. This isn’t the part I was expecting to get yelled at for! Look, if you have any ideas on how to erase several decades of fratboy comedy, I’m all ears, but I’m kind of coming up short.”

“Put your money where your mouth is,” he says. “Spotlight other queer comedians, queer charities, something other than your own tour.”

Richie blinks. The constant fear-sweats had put him in a bit of a solipsistic mode.

“Alright.” He says.

The man blinks. “Alright?”

“Alright. It’s a good idea.” On impulse, he hands over the pile of frozen meals. “Look, you can be the recipient of my first, symbolic attempt at reparations.”

Richie starts walking. The man doesn’t follow him.

“…I don’t eat Lite n Easy,” he hears from behind him. “I have taste.”

Whatever. He gets points for trying.

“Hi,” Richie says, as soon as he gets inside, buoyed by adrenaline at his own survival. “I bought milk. Did we need anything other than milk? I also bought ready meals but, as is my wont, I gifted them to the first person who recognised me.”

Eddie looks at him with some degree of pity. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get the rest” He’s already packed a bag, like he was expecting Richie to struggle with a shopping trip. “I’ll be your worn-down celebrity assistant,” he says. He winks at Richie on his way out, like he’s about to go on a secret assignment, not buy groceries for a manchild. Richie is violently in love with him, but what’s new?

While he waits for Eddie, he starts writing. He feels like he needs to write something, some explanation, or justification for himself. He’s been slingshotting between anger and self-loathing lately, reading all the responses to him on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. He needs to write something sans either of those emotions. Needs to project himself into the body of a rational person for 20 minutes.

_Over the last couple of days,_ Richie writes, _there have been a variety of responses: former fans, wishing I wasn’t gay. And gays with taste, wishing I wasn’t gay._

_Along with a tiny circle, made up entirely of gay republicans and Facebook mums who have never seen my comedy, who wish me all the best and want me to keep doing what I’m doing._

_At the risk of alienating those 3 fans, I’ll put it out there: that’s not exactly my target demo (although I’m sure my love of an older woman has been well-documented by this point)._

_I was never expecting to be welcomed with open arms. I spent years as a mouthpiece for sets that mostly revolved around the theme “women be shopping”. But it’s a little bizarre, being excluded from a group I know I’m a part of. I’m not Jon Lovett. I’m not the gay you want, but I am gay, and I’m gonna be gay whether or not you think I’m a shitheel._

_I get it. As a group, we have a limited number of chances to be seen, and some of them are getting wasted on someone whose primary contribution to comedy has been an Alexandrian library’s worth of dick jokes._

_If I knew that me stepping down would cause a wholesome, out and proud queer comedian to grow in my place, like some kind of gay Medusa, then maybe I would take that chance. But I’m pretty sure I’m only where I am because I got in through the backdoor (feel free to insert your own joke here)._

_What I have realised, after it was helpfully yelled at me from across the street, is that I may actually have enough influence to direct people to some people and causes that actually deserve your time. So, here is a list of all the_ _comedians I was actually watching while I was pretending that Sausage Party was my favourite movie of all time._

_And here is a list of charities that can help with things like: stopping straight people from hosting gender reveal hunts. _

_If you’re wondering what’s next for_ me _, well, I hope writing my own material will bring something new to the table (although, and I want to be absolutely clear on this point: there will still be a lot of dick jokes). I can’t promise it will be any better. If nothing else, hopefully I’ll end the obligation of gay excellence, to be replaced by a new era of a gay mediocrity._

Eddie’s carrying 4 bags when he comes through the door, like he’s in a strongman competition made specifically for him. He plonks them all on the counter and Richie gets up to help him unpack.

“You writing?” Eddie asks, nodding at the laptop.

“Yeah.” Richie says. “Maybe uh. Maybe you could give it a look-over sometime? Just to see if I sound like an asshole?”

“You are an asshole,” Eddie says. “Don’t you want it to seem authentic?”

Richie pulls a 1 kg package from one of Eddie’s bags. “Says the man force-feeding me psyllium husks.”

“You don’t have any fibre in the house,” he says, and then he’s off, heading over to the laptop.

Richie watches him sit and read, trying not to fixate on his expressions too obviously.

After a minute or two, Eddie turns to him. “Are you gonna do that thing where you type it into your Notes app and screenshot it and tweet that out, gradually chipping away at the entire point of Twitter?”

“Of course not,” Richie says. “I’m going to take a polaroid of the Word document, and photograph _that_. Way classier.”

“I like it.” Eddie says. “But do you really want to end on ‘expect mediocrity’?”

“That’s the strategy, Eds,” Richie says with a wink. “Keep their expectations low.”

“So they’re pleasantly surprised?”

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

Eddie hums, turns back to the laptop, and types a sentence.

“Done,” he says, and heads to his room.

Richie sits down and looks at the screen, which now says, _Expect to shit yourself laughing._

Richie grins. He definitely can’t post that. But he lets it turn his brain into a warm eggy soup of Eddie’s making, before his finger lands on the backspace key.


	3. Chapter 3

Eddie stays for another night. Richie doesn’t mention it. He has this delirious thought that Eddie has just forgotten he doesn’t live here, and as soon as Richie reminds him he’s going to ruin everything.

He would offer to make breakfast, but Eddie woke about an hour before him. Now he’s sitting at the counter, on his laptop. He offers Richie a plate of cold omelette when he enters the kitchen.

Figuring it’s better than his usual cold Pop-Tart, Richie sits next to him and digs in. He posted his little monologue yesterday, and he’s been obsessively reading comments since. They’ve been a little better than they were after the show.

Someone’s commented with a Justin Timerblake _It’s gonna be May!_ meme, annotated to read _He’s gonna be gay!_

Richie looks at it for a full minute. He thinks it’s a positive message.

“Hey, Eds.” He hands the phone over. “What do you think this means?”

Eddie looks at it for even longer. “That’s Justin Timberlake, right? I think that’s a good thing. He’s saying you’re like Justin Timberlake?”

Richie grins, and takes his phone back. “Tell me, Eds, have you _ever_ been on the internet?”

“You asked for my opinion!” Eddie says, lifting his hands up in frustration. _Cute cute cute._

Richie just lets himself look for a second. Then he drags his omelette around the plate. “Hey. You know you don’t have to, like, stay and take care of me. I’m ok.” _Please stay and take care of me._

Eddie shrugs. “I might as well stay the weekend.” His eyebrows dip a little. “Unless that was a hint. Do you want me to leave so you can celebrate your newfound liberation at a gay bar?”

Richie laughs. “Really? Those are the vibes I’m giving off? With the crying and the Cheetos-eating? ‘Richie seems like he’s in a slutty, slutty mood’?”

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know what your slutty mood looks like.”

_Oh Eddie. Poor naieve Eddie._

“Wear something with a little more cleavage and you’ll find out.”

“I’m so glad you’re writing woke comedy now,” Eddie says dryly.

Richie grins at him. “You know what woke means! You _have_ been online before!”

“Changed my mind,” Eddie says. “I’m taking the first Uber out of here.”

“Too late. That out was only valid for 30 seconds.”

“You wanna go out for lunch today?” Eddie asks.

Richie blinks at the change of tack. “Uh. What happened to restaurant food causing heart disease?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Let’s go to a museum then. I just figured you might want to ease back into leaving the house. You know, while I’m still here.”

Richie blinks, caught between warmth and embarrassment. “I don’t think I need a starter pack to leave the house. I left the house yesterday.”

“Yeah.” Eddie says, eyes narrowing. “And you forgot to buy anything. Whatever. If you don’t want to go out, we don’t have to.”

Richie instantly backtracks. What is he doing? He has the chance to impress Eddie, convince him to come to his neck of the woods more often.

“There’s a pizza place,” he says quickly. “Like, uh, 500 metres away. Really good food.”

“Kay,” Eddie says, “Couple hours?”

Richie nods, and watches him tap away at his keyboard.

Eddie takes a bite of his pizza, and immediately sculls his water.

“It’s salty,” he says defensively, while Richie stares at him.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “That’s why it’s good.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. He reaches up, serviette in hand.

Richie goes very still as Eddie swipes at his cheek. Eddie calmly goes back to eating while Richie gets his face under control.

Eddie eats half his pizza, and pushes the rest across to Richie.

Richie starts to feel like some kind of fucking neanderthal. Why didn’t he take Eddie to some salad bar or at least a fancy fucking restaurant, somewhere his insanely sensitive tastebuds could-

“Hey.” Eddie kicks his legs. “You good?”

Richie plasters a smile on his face and shoves one of Eddie’s pizza slices into his mouth. “Good,” he says through the dough. “What do you wanna do today, Eddie baby? The Art Institute? The Bean? Tour some phallic skyscrapers? The world is your oyster.” _Please, please, let me get what you want._

Eddie takes a sip of his water. “Is The Bean really in the top 3 sights?”

Richie grins. “It’s a bean you can see your face in. I don’t know what more you could ask from Chicago.”

They go to The Bean. Richie starts pretending to climb it, just so Eddie screams at him, clinging to his wrist.

There’s a moment where Eddie walks through the arch, and the light is reflecting off him _just_ right, and Richie is pretty sure he clinically dies for that moment, but. He recovers. He recovers, and no one yells slurs at him, and he goes home feeling kind of renewed.

Eddie cooks dinner. He insists on it, and, to be honest, Richie doesn’t really mind. It’s not like he can’t cook, but it’s mostly 3am cupcakes, rather than dinners with nutritional value. And Eddie happens to be very attractively competent. Richie hides himself away in his room so he doesn’t look too much.

A lot of people are in his Twitter mentions, posting pictures of him and Eddie together, with a lot of question marks. One of them links him to a Perez Hilton article about _Trashmouth’s New Beau._

_Cleaning up a Trashmouth_ captions the photo of Eddie, wiping at his cheek. There’s one of Richie staring at Eddie that he scrolls past at the speed of light. _Trouble in paradise,_ under Eddie yelling at Richie at The Bean, and, finally, _All’s well that ends well?_ under a photo of Eddie, laughing at some dumb joke Richie made about wrapping the big bean up in a big burrito.

He looks at that one for a while. Lets himself live in the world where they are dating, for a little while. _All’s well that ends well._

A knock on the doorframe interrupts his thoughts. Reflexively, he slams the laptop shut. He could explain it, probably, but a little bit of it feels like he’s stalking Eddie. While he’s right there.

Eddie looks at him, nonplussed. “Dinner’s ready. Are you reading negative comments again?”

“No,” says Richie, then, lest Eddie try to forcibly open his laptop to prove him wrong, adds, “I’m cutting together every sex scene from Brokeback Mountain to make my own porn. Wanna see?”

“Brokeback Mountain? You’re that vanilla?” Eddie asks with a pitying tilt of the head. Then turns around and leaves the room.

Richie sits there for a moment, and wills his face to go back to a normal colour.


	4. Chapter 4

Eddie stays Sunday night. Richie’s not sure if the laptop slamming convinced him Richie needed it.

He’s gone to work by the time Richie wakes up, but all his bags are still there. Richie checks.

After breakfast, Richie kind of runs out of things to do. He faces the horrible realisation that, since his career appears not to have tanked as thoroughly as he thought, he might need to write new material at some point.

Steve wants him to go political. Richie doesn’t think he can jump from talking shit about his imaginary girlfriends to talking shit about Trump voters. It feels a little too hypocritical, a little too soon. That basically leaves the personal, which is a truly awful prospect, but hey. He’s already done it once.

Newly recovered childhood memories seem like the natural starting point.

The problem is, every time he starts writing a sentence, Eddie seems to come up.

He’s in the middle of deleting what he just wrote, for the eighth time when he thinks _Ok. Different strategy._ _Just get it all out. Cull later. Maybe if he gets 10 pages down on paper, he can end up with a few lines._

So, he writes like he’s a 13 year-old trying to fill a diary. A new sensation for Richie, who was far too scared to ever keep a journal.

He prints it out. He likes to print before he edits, so he can cover whole swathes of text with black marker. Redacting sensitive information.

He needs a break first (4 hours procrastination for 1 hour frenzied writing, that’s Richie’s work day). A shower would probably not go amiss. Eddie’s coming home in a couple hours, and Richie’s still in his pyjamas, and sometimes he likes to give the impression that he’s a functioning adult, just to see the surprise on Eddie’s face.

It’s when he’s towelling off that he hears it. The click of the latch. Eddie’s not supposed to be home for another hour, so, naturally, his first thought is killer clowns from space.

He considers the indignity of getting murdered with his dick out, and decides on getting dressed first. Then he hears, clearly, Eddie’s voice, saying “Rich? Did you do some more writing?”

The papers.

“No!” Richie screeches through the wall, pulling his pants up. “It’s not ready!

He barrels out of the bathroom.

Eddie looks up at him. He looks startled in a someone-just-bounded-out-of-a-bathroom-shirtless way, but probably not in an I-just-found-out-my-friend-is-in-love-with-me way.

“Didn’t you have yoga, after your work thing?” Richie asks, making his way around the table.

“…It got cancelled.”

Richie grabs the papers while Eddie is still blinking at him.

“Dude.” Eddie says. “Are you ok?”

“Yep. It’s just not ready.” He gives Eddie a smile that probably looks slightly manic.

“Ok,” Eddie says, holding his hands up in surrender and heading to the kitchen. “Whatever, Da Vinci. Keep your masterpiece under wraps.”

Richie feels a strange concoction of relief and disappointment. He had been certain, for a moment, that the jig was up, but now, apparently, it has to keep going, on and on and on. He feels suddenly exhausted.

They watch _Into the Woods_ that night, sitting on the couch. Richie is trying to train Eddie into enjoying musicals. Afterwards, Eddie looks over, hugging a cushion, and says, “This is the only work outfit I brought.”

“Oh.” Richie considers offering some of his clothes, before realising that he owns maybe 1 button-up from an awards show years ago, and it would probably be 3 sizes too big.

“So. I should probably head back tomorrow,” Eddie says, like he’s looking for feedback.

“Oh. Sure.”

Eddie eyes him. “Is that ok?”

Richie plasters on a smile. “Course. Thanks for sticking round, but. I’m fine now, really.”

Strangely enough, he does feel ok. He doesn’t want Eddie to go anywhere, ever, but. He feels like he’ll be able to cope without going into a drinking spiral.

“Kay,” Eddie says. “Now get up, I need to make my bed.”

Sleeping arrangements were the only realm in which Eddie admitted to being shorter than Richie, put it forward as incontrovertible evidence that Richie could not sleep on the sofa without breaking something.

Richie gets up. He looks at the little sofa. “You could stay in my bed. Just if you want.” He promptly turns around, and starts walking to his bedroom before his words can catch up with him. “Night Eds.”

Eddie does join him. He slips into bed next to Richie, once the lights are already off and Richie is still lying on his back, painfully awake.

“Night, Rich,” he whispers, and squeezes his fingers, once.

 _I love you,_ Richie thinks with the painful starkness that comes with night. He rolls onto his side so he doesn’t have to look at Eddie in his baggy sleep shirt. _I don’t know how much longer I can stand it._


	5. Chapter 5

Richie wakes up when Eddie’s getting out of bed. Eddie whispers an apology, and at first Richie thinks it’s for that, for leaving. Then his brain catches up and he realises it’s for waking him up.

He shakes his head, which is about as much as he can do this early

He watches Eddie pack, and then suddenly they’re standing at the door. And it blisters, the thought that Eddie is going to come and go and come and go, tugging Richie’s mood along with him all the while.

Like a rat in an experiment. He gets a week of heroin in his drip-feed and then it’s gone, and he has to adjust. And the cycle continues.

“Eds.” He says, spur of the moment. “I um. I have something for you.”

_Rat appears to be pawing desperately at the door to his cage._

Eddie waits while Richie goes to his bedroom, grabs a sheaf of papers out of the drawer he stuffed them into. _This is a bad idea,_ his mind supplies, although it’s helpfully quieted by the blaring white noise his brain is now producing.

He goes back out and hands them to Eddie, willing his hand not to shake. _Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea._ “Can you give it a read, after work? Uh. See if it sounds ok?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I thought you meant a gift, not editorial duties. “

“I let you loose in my house, and now you want a gift?”

“Funny.” Eddie says darkly. He eyes Richie, who’s pretty sure he’s pale and shaking at this point, and frowns.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“ _No_ ,” Richie says vehemently, incapable of imagining anything worse than Eddie reading those papers with Richie in the room. “I’m good, promise.”

“Alright.” Eddie pulls him into a hug that lasts for a minute, then gives him a friendly shove back. “Cya, dipshit. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

As soon as the door closes, Richie’s legs give out and he sits unceremoniously on the floor. He gets his phone out of his pocket, and calls Bev before he can start hyperventilating.

“Bev. Beverly. Can you intercept Eddie and steal some papers from his bag? I think I made a horrible mistake.”

“While that does sound like the type of caper that would delight me, I think you better tell me the details.” Bev says lightly.

He groans. “You know the Eddie thing?”

“The Eddie thing,” Bev repeats.

“Yes, the Eddie thing. The fucking, thing I have for Eddie.”

“Oh, _that_ Eddie thing.”

“Oh my God. Well. Eddie’s gonna _know_ about the Eddie thing.”

Bev gasps. “Richie. Did you write him a love letter?”

“No!” Richie says, feeling oddly defensive about something that has been an open secret for months, if not decades. “I. Gave him a set I wrote. And. He’s in it.”

“…How do you make _that_ mistake?”

Richie runs a hand over his face. “It wasn’t a mistake. I mean, no, it was definitely a mistake, but-”

“Oh,” Beverly says, sounding far too delighted for the circumstances. “It was a _gesture_.”

“Ugh.” Richie says, rubbing a hand over his face in an attempt to erase all his memories. “No.”

“Yes.” says Bev. “It was a very romantic gesture, and I am both proud and thrilled.”

“You are being far too hopeful.”

“Richie,” Bev says. “Do you want me to get over there?”

“No.” Richie says. “That’s-I’m ok.”

“Ok.” Bev says. “I love you. Eddie loves you. It’s gonna be ok.”

“Love you too,” Richie says. “Can you just. Tell me about your weekend? I need to distract myself for a while.”

“You’re lucky,” Bev says. “I had a killer weekend.”

They talk for about an hour. Richie eats his breakfast, compulsively checks his phone, turns it off and throws it in a drawer, gets it out of the drawer and turns it back on again. He’s in the middle of checking messenger for the 80th time when there’s a knock on his door.

His first thought is Bev, but he also bought a kitschy clock on Ebay last week. Could be that.

He opens the door, and sees Eddie. All of his shit piled behind him.

His throat dries out. “You. Work.” He croaks nonsensically.

“I took a half-day,” says Eddie. “You made me cry on my lunch break, asshole.”

Richie can’t read Eddie’s expression. He laughs with nervous hysteria.

“Our receptionist asked if I wanted a benzo.”

“I’m sorry a co-worker was nice to you,” Richie says, aggressively trying to inject a sense of normalcy into these proceedings. “I know you hate that.”

Eddie takes a step towards him. Richie, reflexively, steps back. Eddie makes a frustrated noise in his throat, fists clenching at his sides.

And they stand there, in silence. _Fuck. Caged rats are not let into the wild for a reason. Lest they get eaten by a magpie or lost in a subway tunnel._

“Are you staying here?” Richie asks weakly, looking out at the suitcases in the hall.

“ _Richie_. What the fuck? I thought. The stuff you wrote…”

“Eddie.” Richie says plaintively. “Please don’t make me talk about it.”

Eddie’s expression softens, a little. “We don’t have to talk.” He takes another step forward, and Richie almost steps back, but now he’s inexplicably weighted to the ground. They stand a few inches apart.

“We don’t?” he asks, voice cracking humiliatingly.

“Well,” Eddie says, lifting his hand to slowly stroke at the hair of Richie’s nape, like Richie is a skittish abandoned kitten. “Not right now.”

“Oh,” Richie says, pitching up. Eddie’s nose brushes against his, and then his _mouth_ , _holy shit his mouth._ His lips are half-wet and taste like the kind of artificial watermelon flavouring which Eddie would probably never tolerate in his food, but loves in his chapsticks.

“God, I love your mouth,” Richie says, somewhat hysterically, when they break apart.

Eddie quirks an eyebrow, smiling. “You _what_?”

“Shut up.” Richie says. “Nothing. Keep going.”

“I love you.” says Eddie.

Richie laughs, manically. “Was I supposed to lead with that, and not the mouth thing?”

“You did lead with that,” Eddie says, digging the papers out from his pocket and unfolding them. “’So, there I was,” he reads, “-standing by the shooting gallery, having a nosebleed into the biggest fairy floss I’d ever seen, when I realised-‘”

“Ok,” Richie says. “No quoting myself back at me, please. I’m going to burn those papers.”

“You can fucking try,” Eddie says, shoving them back into his pocket. “Now move,” he says, jerking his head towards his suitcases. “I’ve gotta bring my luggage in before one of your neighbours steals it.”

“Oh yeah. There’s a big black market for polo shirts around these parts.”

Eddie flips him the bird as his wheeled suitcases _clunk_ over the floor. Richie thinks it’s his new favourite sound.


End file.
